


Uninvited

by firefright, Skalidra



Series: Retribution's Reward [3]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family, M/M, Minor Character(s), Omega Jason Todd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22647490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: "Hey," he gasps, tightening his thighs around Slade's waist, "do you want to come?"There's a pause, hands stilling against his side and… Elsewhere. Then a bemused, "I'm pretty sure that's the point of this," rumbled against the skin of his throat, trailing up towards his ear."Dinner, Slade. Do you want to come todinner?"Slade lifts his head to look him in the eye, and grins.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Series: Retribution's Reward [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577518
Comments: 45
Kudos: 745





	Uninvited

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This was actually something that Fire and I were writing separately, but then upon finishing/reading Retribution's Reward, we realized that with a minor bit of editing, it could be a sequel! So, without further ado, have some follow-up angst and as-close-to-fluff-as-Slade-gets. Enjoy!

Jason glares at his closet as his eyes pick over the shirts inside. Basic shirt, too casual; button up, too stiff; sweater, too comfortable for how fucking _pissed_ he feels. He really wishes he could show up to the dinner in body armor, but Alfred has strict rules about uniforms in the house, so that's a no go. He's sure as fuck not wearing a suit, even if Bruce and the lackeys show up in one.

Maybe he could wear body armor underneath a sweater. That's not _quite_ breaking the rules, is it?

He hears the front door of the apartment open and close, and a tiny part of the tension between his shoulders eases out. Most of it's still there, because fuck Bruce and all his hypocritical bullshit, never trusting him, driving him out any way he can, every time, but one tiny part is relieved that his mate is home, that he can maybe let some of this frustration and fury and inability to do anything against the people that matter loose.

(Slade will come to him. He's pissed and that scent's going to be all over the house; even someone without enhanced senses would notice it, so it'll be as blatant as a sign for Slade.)

The door to the bedroom swings open, and without looking Jason snaps, "Hey, what do you wear to a family dinner to say ' _fuck_ you' but also 'I don't care what you think', _and_ ‘you’re not affecting how great I’m doing' at the same time?"

Slade's footsteps are quiet against the carpet, but the heat of him is unmistakable as it comes up against his back, broad hands lifting to rest lightly against the outside of his shoulders. He turns his head just a bit and gets hit with the sharp, rich slide of Slade's scent over his tongue. Gunmetal and blood and _mine, home, mate_. There's definitely a part of him that would like to just blow this whole thing off and curl up under Slade's arm for the night. Maybe tomorrow, too.

Fuck all of this, let it all sit for a couple days and come back with a clearer head. Then, maybe, he can deal with this stupid backstabbing political game Bruce has started. All but disowning him to the media, pulling his sanity and his qualifications into question and asking how supposedly-dead Jason Todd amassed enough of a fortune to buy the Iceberg Lounge, all under the guise of a concerned father who just _worries_.

Son of a _bitch_.

Slade shifts before he can give into the temptation to turn, reaching out and pulling a deep red button-up out of the closet to press against his chest. Slade steps back, and Jason's about to complain that this doesn't help him at all before a still warm jacket settles over his shoulders. Expensive, butter-smooth black leather, and decidedly too big for him, which not much is unless, of course, it's Slade's.

Oh, that's good.

His mate hums something possessive and approving all at once, cups the side of his head in one big hand to pull him into a brief kiss, and then wanders off in the direction of the bathroom.

Jason lifts the collar of the jacket to take in a deep breath of Slade's scent, soaked deep into the fabric and leather and comforting in its familiarity. It smells like security. To him. To Bruce, though...

Bruce knows they’re involved, obviously. Probably hard to forget beating the shit out of your ‘son,’ only for one of the deadliest assassins in the world to come after you for it. Whether he knows that they mated, not all that long after that whole fucking mess, is a little harder to say. Bruce is a paranoid bastard, but nothing’s… changed. Not really. There’s a scar low on his neck, relatively light and easy to miss in the middle of the two other miscellaneous scars around it, but he’s pretty sure that no one’s been in a position to see that. Except Alfred, but he’d already seemed to know when he asked to see the bite, barely days after it happened.

(Weirdly supportive, actually. He’d kind of thought that Alfred would be pissed about the whole ambush thing, but he just… sent him all his books, instead. Seemed approving of the bite, too; hell, at least he has someone from the pack in his corner.)

So, maybe Bruce knows they’re mated, maybe he doesn’t, but he still definitely doesn’t like being confronted with the fact they’re in some kind of a relationship. Tough shit. Slade's one of the only people that doesn't judge him, or push at him to be more or less than he is, or try and force him into a mold he doesn't fit into. He accepted him enough to stay with him, care for him through the injuries, all of it. Cared enough to want him as a mate, as pack, as _his_. Cared enough to go after Bruce and pay back the broken bones and the rejection, without him even asking.

Cared enough not to kill him, even though he could have.

Yeah, shoving that in Bruce's face sounds like a perfect 'fuck you.'

Slacks, shirt, jacket. Combat boots? Yes. That sounds good.

The shower starts up, and Jason turns his head in the direction of it. Maybe a bit of personal time before he leaves would be good, too. Just for relaxation.

He leaves the shirt and jacket on the bed as he heads for the bathroom, the door left mostly open in a blatant invitation. Blatant for Slade, anyway. He reaches the threshold and pauses to appreciate the view within; Slade with his back to the door, just dropping his shirt to the ground to join shoes and socks. The muscle in his back is as mouthwatering as ever, flexing as his shoulders roll back in a minor stretch. Both hands lower to his belt, then, and Jason bites into his lower lip to keep from making any stupid sounds to betray his presence.

Not that it matters.

Slade's smirking when he turns around, belt and zipper undone, flashing tight, black briefs beneath them. "Gonna stand there all day, kid?"

Absolutely fucking not.

He's got his back pressed against the wall of the shower and Slade's teeth at his neck when the thought flashes through his mind. Sharp. Petty. Fucking brilliant.

" _Hey_ ," he gasps, tightening his thighs around Slade's waist, "do you want to come?"

There's a pause, hands stilling against his side and… Elsewhere. Then a bemused, "I'm pretty sure that's the point of this," rumbled against the skin of his throat, trailing up towards his ear.

Slade is smart, is the thing. _Really_ smart, so there is little to no chance that he genuinely doesn't understand, and quite a large chance that he's just being an asshole. So Jason smacks the back of his shoulder, and growls a little.

" _Dinner_ , Slade. Do you want to come to dinner?"

Slade lifts his head to look him in the eye, and _grins_.

* * *

Dick's the first one to greet him, smiling wide but with that little edge that proves he knows that he's, again, in the middle of something between Jason and Bruce. Jason doesn't really have the spare emotions to care about that; fair's fair, he thinks, for all those times he got caught in the middle of their issues when he was a kid.

Besides, if Dick really wanted to fucking fix things he’d talk to Bruce and try to get him to back off, not just play peacemaker.

He comes up, conversation spilling out from one of the other rooms but no one following him out, and raises an arm in the clear offer of a hug. Jason takes it, letting his sometimes-brother pull him into his arms, giving him the uniquely wonderful and also awkward experience of hugging Dick Grayson. Warm, safe feeling just because of all the compact muscle in those arms, but also Dick one-hundred percent doesn't smell like family, he just smells really _good_ , too much like a fully grown, confident alpha and it's a little unfair. Always has been.

However, the hug does mean that Jason feels the exact moment that Dick inhales and gets hit with the full concentration of Slade's scent.

He goes rigid. Then pulls away, holding onto Jason's shoulders and looking at him again, eyes just a little wide until they land on the jacket he's wearing. Clearly too big for him, clearly not his, clearly doesn't _smell_ like him. Jump from there to the bruised skin Slade left high up on his throat, then down again.

The laugh is a little desperate, and Dick steps to the side, tries to pull the leather down off one of his shoulders. "Fire's nice and warm; let's just hang this up—"

He bats Dick's hands away, flashing his teeth and stepping away. "No. It's staying on."

"Come on, Jason. It—"

Dick's voice cuts into abrupt silence when Slade steps through the still-open door, and he takes a sharp step back. Satisfaction warms his chest, right next to the anger he was stoking the whole drive over. It only grows when Slade's arm settles around his shoulders and Dick's expression tightens into something a little less friendly and a little more combative. Yeah, good luck with that.

"No. Jason, _no_. Absolutely not. He can't be here." It’s clear Dick’s addressing Jason only with that, though he does spare a glare in turn for Slade.

"Pretty sure he can." He takes a purely for-show glance at Slade, crossing his arms. "Doesn't seem to be bursting into flames or anything."

"That's not—!" Dick's voice cuts off sharply, as if he suddenly realized how loud he was getting. "Jason," he starts again, lower and definitely pretending to be pleading, even if he just sounds frustrated, "he nearly killed Bruce. I know you're angry at him, and I get why, but you cannot bring Slade in here. That's crossing a line; you have to see that."

"Mm." Jason narrows his eyes. "You mean like telling every news outlet that even starts to ask that as a 'concerned father,' he's worried I'm unstable and 'just not the same'? That kind of a line? Or the line where he simultaneously implies that I'm not qualified to run a business, but also amassed some kind of illegal fortune doing exactly that? Is that the one you’re talking about?"

Dick's face pinches at the edges.

Slade takes the moment of silence to add, “If my goal had been to kill the Bat, he’d be dead,” with enough certainty that Jason almost shivers. Dick flinches. “I don’t do ‘almost,’ kid; he’s only alive because I wasn’t trying to kill him.”

Maybe it’s bad to enjoy the way Dick pales just a little at that, but Jason does anyway. And he can’t quite help saying, “See? No killing; it’s fine.”

“That’s not the point,” Dick snaps back, still quietly, before turning his full attention to Slade. “How much do I have to pay you to go away right now?”

Slade chuckles, “Sorry, kid, that approach won’t work this time.”

“Consider it a contract.” Dick says, with increasing desperation. Probably because with every passing second the risk of someone else coming out here to see what’s keeping them grows.

“Tempting as you owing me is, Grayson, I’m just here to support my mate.”

Jason’s still not completely sure how he feels about actually clueing the rest of the family in on that fact, but it is exquisitely satisfying to watch Dick's eyes go wide and stunned. If Bruce has even half as good of a reaction, it’ll be completely worth it. Dick actually takes a step back, too, before he seems to realize what he’s doing.

“You… You two are _mated_? Since when?!”

"A while," he hedges.

"August twenty-fourth," Slade absolutely does _not_ hedge. Then he adds, "Last year," with a little smirk because he's an asshole.

Jason shoots him a glare, but he's completely unrepentant. Of course he is.

Dick’s face goes through an interesting journey of expressions, before settling on something a little uncomfortable. “That’s—”

Maybe he doesn’t like Slade giving out the _exact_ anniversary date, but it’s vindictively satisfying to point out, “Just about after the arm Bruce broke finally healed, yeah. Still a little sore, but it was fine.”

The glance to Slade is a little concerned, a little suspicious. “Jason, this was all… your choice, right?”

For being the one that’s basically getting accused of rape, at minimum, Slade takes it a lot better than he does. Jason stiffens, mouth opening in a snarl to tell Dick exactly what he thinks of that utterly _bullshit_ idea, but Slade just laughs.

It’s enough to cut him off, bewilderment taking over for anger for just long enough that Slade can shoot a small grin down at him and then look back to Dick. “Underselling your brother if you think anyone could make him do anything he didn’t want to, kid.”

Dick's response is a rapid-fire, "There's a difference between forcing and manipulating."

Jason does snarl then, taking a sharp step out from under Slade’s arm. “Yeah, sure. One involves breaking bones and the other trying to undermine everything I try to do. Want to guess who it was that did both of those to me? Cause it sure as shit wasn’t Slade.”

He never really believes, even in the second that Dick winces and draws back an inch, that he’s going to get any kind of agreement. And sure enough, the next moment Dick squares back up. “You know that’s not what he meant to do, Jason. He just—”

“Just _what?_ ” He takes another step, enough to get him in Dick’s face. “You know, _maybe_ I made this choice because he’s the only person that’s ever taken my side. You ever think of that?”

The trickle of hurt in Dick’s expression stings. “That’s not fair.”

“Why not?” Jason bares his teeth, settles his weight a little more firmly. “You keep pretending you’re some kind of peacemaker for the pack but all that ever seems to fucking mean is shutting me down. All of the bullshit Bruce does, and it’s always _my_ fault. When have you _ever_ taken my side?”

The silence really says everything, even if Dick won’t. He takes a breath and a step backwards, hands lifting some as if he’s yielding. “Okay. Fine. But this?” He gestures between the two of them. “Is a bad idea. I get that you’re angry, Jason, but this isn’t how to solve things.”

“Yeah, I think I’m past solving things. I’ll be civil when he is, _not_ before.”

Dick looks like he wants to argue, but he just takes another step back instead. A glance towards Slade, lips pressing tight together, and then he turns and walks away, back towards the open door and the barely-audible conversation still coming from inside. He vanishes through it, and Jason takes a breath, shaking off the tension and straightening up a bit. He turns back to find Slade watching him, thumbs hooked in the pockets of the dark blue jeans he’s wearing, head tilted a bit to one side.

Jason shifts under the look, still wound up enough that he demands, “What?”

Slade’s mouth curls in a faint smirk. “Just admiring you.”

Heat rushes to his cheeks. “ _Slade_.”

“What?” A single step of his long legs closes the distance between them, and Slade lifts a hand to wrap around the back of his neck and pull him close. His voice drops to a low rumble. “I’m not allowed to appreciate my mate?”

“Don’t you start,” Jason warns, but he also doesn’t resist the tug that pulls him up on his toes, or the mouth that brushes over his.

The kiss is brief, as chaste as Slade’s intensity can ever be, but it settles something in his chest. Slade’s here for him. Because he asked. That’s all the backup he could ever need.

“Is everything alr—?”

Jason whips his head around at the sudden voice, baring his teeth on reflex before he identifies Tim, leaning half out of the door and mouth in the middle of snapping shut. He looks between them, taking the final step to clear the frame as Jason pulls back, putting at least a little distance between him and Slade. Little late for it, but, well, Tim can be disapproving to his face or fuck right off.

“This is because of the press release, right?” Tim asks, arms crossing over his chest.

The reminder brings the anger right back to a simmer. Jason’s eyes narrow. “Yeah.”

Tim nods. “Yeah,” he says, quietly enough it almost seems like it’s just for him, “that's probably fair.” His voice rises. “Probably should come in before he decides to come check himself. Or, you know, wait. If you don't want to put everyone else in the middle of all of," one hand waves around, “ _this_.”

That would be nicer, definitely. But he’s actually pretty sure he _does_ want to drag the rest of the family into this. If Bruce is going to be a bastard, he doesn’t get to keep it to himself. Everyone else _should_ be involved; at least that way he’ll know where he stands with all of them.

Tim seems to see some of that on his face. He takes a deep breath, exhales. “Alright then.”

He vanishes back around the door.

Slade makes a sound of amusement from behind him. He expects some sort of comment to go along with it, but when he turns, Slade’s focused on him, not the doorway. Smirking but still, waiting for his decision. And it’s intensely reassuring to know that it could be anything. If he wants to stay here, face Bruce one on one (relatively speaking), Slade will wait with him. If he wants to turn around and leave, forget the whole idea, Slade would do that too.

But he doesn’t.

“I don’t want to wait,” he says, holding Slade’s gaze.

The smirk gets big enough to flash just a bit of teeth. “Alright.” Slade glances to the door, then back to him. “After you.”

It feels a bit like suiting up for battle, but Jason nods and takes a breath, turning and striding for the door. He can hear Slade’s footsteps behind him, and they drive him through the door and down the hallway, towards the open door to the left where the noise is spilling out of. Same sitting room they always use; lots of space, and the fewest priceless things in it in case anyone does a little impromptu sparring. That might be an even better idea than usual, this time.

There's a corner of his brain that wants to hesitate at the door, but he shuts it away behind a wall and doesn't let his stride falter even the tiniest bit. There's nothing in that room that can scare him. He won't let it.

He scans automatically as he crosses the threshold. Cassandra and Stephanie at one corner; Tim, Conner, Kate, and Renee by the fire; Duke over with Bruce, Dick, and Barbara at one of the couch-and-chairs sections; Damian on the floor with Titus and Selina; Alfred, hovering near the edge of the room and watching everyone. Doesn't look like Luke's here yet, if he's coming. He doesn't always show. It's more people than he was expecting, actually; usually there's at least a couple that can't make it, due to one emergency or another.

Works for him.

Most of them look up, and he gets to see the moment that slightly worried interest — yeah, they all know exactly what Bruce did — turns into horror, as Slade steps into the room behind him. Bruce snaps to standing, Damian goes from petting Titus to snarling within an instant, with all his baby alpha rage, Conner goes stiff but his eyes don't start to glow, so points to him for restraint. Or maybe Tim warned him when he walked back in; equally possible.

It is _really_ satisfying, if Jason's completely honest with himself.

"Hi," he says to the room at large, as if there's nothing wrong. He holds up a hand, indicating the wall of his mate behind him, "I think most of you have met Slade."

Damian, being the aggressive little bastard that he is, is the first to snarl, "Why have you brought _him_ here, Todd?"

Jason ignores him, and directs his entire focus to Bruce, instead. "Oh, I think _he_ knows why."

Bruce's jaw clenches; Dick looks intensely uncomfortable, standing next to him. "Jason…” He takes a breath, gaze fixed over his shoulder and decidedly not at him. "He's not welcome here, you know that."

"Why's that?" He crosses his arms, faces down that stare. "Because he _upsets_ you? Gosh, I'm sorry, that must be rough. Imagine that; feeling uncomfortable because someone else beat you up once upon a time."

Now Bruce looks at him, briefly. "Jason, that's not—”

"I think," Alfred cuts in, relatively loudly and drawing all eyes, "that Master Jason is entirely within his rights to bring his mate to this gathering." There's a sharp moment of silence, and Bruce actually looks surprised for once. Apparently he _didn't_ know. "After all, we extend that right to all of the family, don't we? Otherwise there are several other people that I'm afraid we'll have to ask to leave as well."

There's a few moments of strained silence, like Bruce is _actually_ thinking about kicking out all the other significant others in the room along with Slade. Then Selina gets up, brushing down the sharp lines of the dress slacks she's wearing as she straightens up. Mostly, anyway; she falls pretty naturally into that one-hand-on-hip posture she seems to favor.

"He's right, you know." She looks to Slade, nods. "Deathstroke."

"Catwoman," Slade answers, sounding amused. "Good to see you."

She laughs, and reaches out to ruffle Damian's hair, distract him from his glaring so he can turn and snarl at her instead. "Well, we'll see. Welcome to the family, I suppose."

Slade snorts, softly, and drawls an obviously sarcastic, "Thanks."

Pretty much no one's going to go against the word of Selina and Alfred — except Bruce, but fuck him — so Jason reaches back and takes Slade's hand, turning firmly away from the glower. "How about I introduce you to everyone?"

When he tugs, Slade follows.

"Sure, kid."

* * *

The kid's family isn't so bad. He expected more outright aggression, but most of them seem to just be uncomfortable with the whole situation, and primarily on his mate's side. Or refusing to pick a side in either direction, which Slade doesn't mind. It's been a long time since he was in a pack larger than mainly himself, and military packs are very different to civilian; he hasn't bothered to play politics like that in a long time.

Jason takes him in a ring around the room first, hand not leaving his for even a moment as he introduces. Most of them Slade knew already, or at least could intuit. Knowing that they're part of the kid's pack, it's mainly as easy as matching exposed hair color and general height to their masked counterparts. The one that escapes him, at least briefly, is the girl Jason introduces as Cass; until she flows from her perch on the back of a chair to standing in front of him, and he recognizes the entirely inhuman grace to it.

Black Bat. Quite possibly the most dangerous person in the entire room; he's seen her work before.

She looks him up and down, stares into his face as Jason introduces the blonde, bubbly one as Stephanie, and then when attention shifts back to her smiles, softly, and says, "No violence. Can stay."

Jason relaxes a little bit, interestingly enough. Slade can't claim that he understands what actually happened, but it's clear enough he's been judged, and apparently passed whatever test it was. The blonde seems to decide that makes him trustworthy, anyway. She even offers him a hand to shake; he's just amused enough to do it.

The clone kid — yes, that one he recognizes — gets caught in the middle of awkward alpha posturing, obviously wanting to challenge his position, but wary enough he seems to recognize it as a bad idea. Poor little Kryptonian. Drake calms him down quickly enough, murmuring low enough that even he can't hear it, though the kid's partner clearly can. The cop, Montoya, is similarly wary. The only civilian of the lot of them, unless you count the butler. She's polite enough, though he gets the impression she was invited as a partner, not because she really knows any of the others.

Batwoman's next to her partner, as well. 'Kate,' apparently. Short hair outside of the mask; interesting. When she faces him, she stands like military; straight-backed, hands behind her, chin slightly raised to meet his gaze but not enough to threaten. Hm.

Jason doesn't seem to have any interest in going to the last group, only points out Grayson, Wayne, Gordon, and the younger black kid that's apparently named Duke. Goes by 'Signal;' yellow suit. Slade thinks he might have spotted him, a time or two. They've certainly never met. The brat goes entirely unnamed, but he doesn't need Jason's guidance to recognize the little brat Robin. Even if the kid didn't make such a fuss about being _Batman's son_ , the resemblance to the little snarling demon is obvious. If you have any reason to compare the two, to begin with.

Slade mainly watches, drawing Jason in under his arm when he shows no signs of moving to another group. It startles him a bit, but then his mate leans into his side, a little of the tension easing out of his back. Slade lets his mate take front in the conversation, and he listens for the threat at their backs. The Bat's too proud to try stabbing him in the back with all these people watching, but if for some reason he decides to put that pride aside, he won't get the chance to succeed. He's here to keep his mate safe, whatever form that takes.

The others cycle through the group; everyone but the Wayne head himself, that is. No loss there.

Finally, though, Jason shrugs out from under his arm and makes some kind of excuse, squaring his shoulders and stalking off across the room towards where Drake's come to stand next to Wayne and Catwoman. Both of them fairly quickly make themselves scarce.

"So," Kate says, still lingering next to him. "Army?"

He shifts enough that he can keep an eye on his mate, without turning away from her. "At first. You too?"

She shakes her head, with a smile that's not quite bitter. "Raised that way, but no. Never made it out of the academy; I wasn't real subtle, and laws weren't in place yet."

"That'd do it." Slade never ran into problems himself, but he had an omega wife at home and he was the best they had; no one wanted to look closer than that.

A figure appears at his side, and he flinches and nearly swings before he recognizes the little black-haired girl suddenly there. It takes him a second to force the reaction away, to not snap at her for coming up on his blind side. Not a sound; he didn't even hear her heartbeat, or breathing. His missing eye has almost never been a weakness. He can track most people entirely through sound, and the ones he can't, he can catch scents from, or just sense.

He's met more than a few League members far less stealthy than that; she'd be a hell of a killer if she wanted to be. Guess she doesn't, if she's with this pack. (Though not all of them hold to the Bat's rules, obviously. His mate doesn't, and from what he knows, neither does Batwoman.)

She's staring at him.

He narrows his eye and stares back.

He fully intends to win whatever contest she thinks she's having, but the voices on the other side of the room pitch sharply upwards in volume for a moment and he has to take a sharp glance over, make sure that Jason is safe. He is; they're arguing, hushed tones, his mate's more obvious anger against the crossed-arm wall of disapproval the Bat is affecting. Entirely the wrong way to handle his mate's anger; he could tell the Bat that, if he thought there was any chance he might listen. If he cared to make this any easier on him.

When he looks back, her head is tilted. She looks… open. Disturbingly open for someone that might give him a real challenge. He's confident in beating everyone else in this room, at least one on one, but he's unsure about her. There's something… off. Something dangerous.

"You worry," she finally says. "Jason."

He frowns, staring down at her. She's barely even chest height on him. Not that size means anything; the right knowledge can take anyone down.

She gives a small smile and reaches out, touching his closer arm with a barely-there brush of fingers. "I speak… bodies. Can see."

"Well your little power must be broken," he rebuffs, pulling his arm back. "My mate can take care of himself; he doesn't need me to worry about him."

"No," she agrees, rocking back slightly, than forward. "But not wrong. Worry. Protect. Love. Good for him. Good for you, too, I think." She reaches up and touches him again, as he frowns. "He feels same. Safe, too."

Huh.

He stares at her, and she smiles a bit wider and pats his arm, gently. He doesn't miss the fact that her fingers skate past a very painful nerve cluster on their way back down, though. "Take care. He deserves."

And she's gone. He can track it this time, at least, see her cross the room to join Drake, Stephanie, and the clone boy. He has to fight the urge to reposition again so he can watch both Jason _and_ her. No. He won't be intimidated by some hero, no matter how dangerous.

Kate snorts, and he somewhat reluctantly pulls his attention away from Black Bat and back to his conversation companion. "She does that. Cassandra was raised without language, so movement, bodies, all that, _is_ her language. She's almost never wrong."

Sounds like some sort of League plot to him, but he can't recall hearing about it before. "Well then this is the exception. I'm not worried for the kid."

She glances towards the arguing pair, raising an eyebrow. "Sure you are. Why else would you be here, in the middle of a bunch of your enemies?"

"Maybe I just like making all you Bats uncomfortable."

The grin is sharp, and sudden. "I'd believe it. But do you really think I don't see how you're watching them? Listening too, judging by how fast you looked over there. Now _I_ didn't hear anything, but some focused super-senses might."

He dismisses it with a small snort. "Can't turn off enhanced hearing. Kid doesn't need me worrying about him, anyway."

"Of course he doesn't, but just because we know they don't need us to, doesn't mean we can just stop, right?" She glances the opposite way this time, back towards where her partner has migrated to stand beside Catwoman. "Besides, it's nice to be worried about sometimes. And between us? I don't think Jason minds all that much, even if he does complain."

Montoya catches her eye from across the room, smiles and tilts her head a little in an obvious summons.

"Well," Kate starts, equally obviously about to answer that summons, "welcome to the family. Be good to Jason, or I'll hunt you down and take out your other eye." She aims that sharp grin at him again, and snorts. "If he doesn't get to you first, but we both know he would."

Slade crosses his arms. "Mm. I'd have to kill all of you first, if I wanted to hurt the kid. Seems like a lot of effort to put in."

Grayson might have recoiled a bit, but she just grins a little wider. "We wouldn't make it easy, that's for damn sure."

He finds himself smirking back. "I've always preferred a challenge.”

"Well, Jason's _definitely_ that. Nice to meet you, Slade."

"Kate."

He watches her go join her partner, and shakes his head slightly before he turns away, taking a couple steps over to the fire and leaning on the wall to the side of it, so he can observe the whole room. They're all quite secured in their little groups, apart from the hushed argument of Wayne and his mate, near the door, and Pennyworth, who's headed his direction.

"Mr. Wilson," the old man greets, stepping in beside him. "How is Randy these days?"

Slade arches an eyebrow. “Sure I shouldn’t be asking you that?”

It’s not as odd as it could be, two former British special forces operatives knowing each other. He still wonders how long they’ve been speaking, though, and exactly how much information they trade to each other. Billy was… unforthcoming. He doubts that Pennyworth will be any more likely to give him information, but it’s possible.

"Mm. Perhaps, but I asked first."

Hn. "Fine, last I heard. Vacation."

More like Billy had declared to him, irritated, that he wanted to see the places on his bucket list at least once _without_ being shot at at the same time, _thank you very much_ , but the sentiment's more or less the same. Travel to remote places, drink beer, spend some of the fortune he's got sitting around from his cuts as middleman.

He should take Jason somewhere. Once the Iceberg is up and running, and his mate doesn't need to be there to manage it all personally. Maybe Billy can find him a smuggling ring somewhere across the world for the kid to let loose on, let him kill some idiot scumbags and feel like he's made the world a better place. It's been a while since he got to watch his mate in action; Jason's a thing of beauty on a hunt, and the adrenaline left afterwards isn't a bad side effect. The kid's vicious when he forgets himself enough to fight and _take_ how he wants to.

Slade's always appreciated a bit of viciousness. It's not like scratches or bites won't heal; the sheets can be washed, or replaced.

"Indeed. I assume he doesn't send you the pictures he's taking?" Pennyworth says, obviously rhetorical. "Some of the sights have been truly lovely."

"I've seen most of them already."

"But obviously with almost no appreciation for them." That sounds remarkably like Billy's complaints, whenever he doesn't stop to appreciate whatever local sunset or rolling hills there are in proximity to whoever he’s been sent to kill. "Sightseeing not of interest to you, Mr. Wilson?"

He glances Jason's direction. "I appreciate some sights. But I tend to prefer action to observation."

Pennyworth doesn't snort or roll his eyes the same way Billy would. He arches an eyebrow instead, and then gives the tiniest of upwards quirks at one corner of his mouth. "Yes, I assumed, given what I know of your life. Master Jason, on the other hand, does tend to appreciate a good view every once in a while, when the occasion allows. I imagine you already know that he's a bit of a romantic, but that's a more specific example, should that ever become relevant information to you."

The old man's advice has been decent, before. Not that he needs it, but it was handy to know which book out of the entire collection now sitting in his living room was his mate's favorite. He would have found out himself, of course, but when information's offered for free, he'll take it. "I'll keep it in mind," he acknowledges.

Pennyworth's gaze shifts to watch Wayne and his mate, as well. "Perhaps, when this unfortunate business is concluded, a trip might be in order. Some time away from Gotham might do Master Jason some good."

He grunts. "Maybe." He thought of it first. It's not the same, anyway. He's not taking Jason on some sort of vacation; it'll be a job like anything else. His mate will appreciate that more than just some sightseeing tour.

Jason snarls, loud enough to draw his gaze. He tunes in just in time to hear the rough, "I haven't even _done_ anything, you hypocritical _bastard_. You're a fucking son of a bitch, you know that? I don't even know why I fucking try to keep to your stupid rules. You've never trusted me, and obviously you never will."

The Bat snarls back, a little lower, a lot more clipped. "You keep giving me reasons not to."

"And when I don't you make something up! I haven't—” Jason takes a sharp breath, cuts himself off and shifts back. "No, you know what? Fuck that, and fuck you. I don't owe you an explanation for anything, and I'm not going to keep crawling back here expecting you to actually take my side or listen to me for fucking once. I'm done being the first to give." He steps back, and snaps a louder, "Slade!"

By how other heads in the room turn, that's definitely loud enough for all of them to hear.

He straightens up and heeds his mate's call, moving across the room to join him. Or he would, if Jason didn't take a wide berth around the still form of the Bat and come to meet him halfway.

"Come on," the kid snaps. "We're leaving."

He was looking forward to getting the chance to antagonize Wayne, but he can always do that later, he supposes. It isn't like this is going to be the last time he's around the Bat, or the rest of his mate's pack.

He follows as Jason strides towards the door, shoulders raised and tense, very intentionally not looking at any of the other people around the room. Most of them look like they'd like to intervene, but none do. None of them willing to take a stand against the Bat, or maybe just none of them willing to stand up for his mate; either way, cowards. He'd bet that they'd all be up in arms if Wayne had done something to Grayson, but then Grayson's more social, central to the pack instead of being on the outskirts. He follows the inane rules the Bat enforces, too.

" _Jason!_ " Wayne shouts from behind them, nearly a roar.

Slade's turning before his brain catches up with the reaction time of his body, and it isn't until he's already pulling his lip back to growl that he fully recognises what he saw.

A flinch.

He remembers the acrid scent of distress and pain, the _snap_ of bone being reset, the shallow, hitching breathing he listened to every night for weeks afterwards, and Slade _snarls_. Squares his shoulders and steps to the side to block the line of sight between the Bat and his mate.

Wayne squares up too; bares his teeth and draws his hands into fists. “Get out of the way.”

He’s aware of the shifting of the rest of Wayne’s pack, some by sound, some at the edge of his vision. He can hear his mate behind him, breathing sharp and tense.

“No.”

Wayne snarls, a foot shifting forward. “You’re not part of this pack.”

Slade laughs through his teeth, the thrill of impending violence rising in his blood, sharpening all his senses. “You’re damn right I’m not.” As if he would ever accept Wayne as the head of his pack, or that the uptight bastard would ever bend enough to consider letting someone else be in charge. “You already got your warning, Wayne; remember?”

It’s nearly enough to make the bastard leap at him, judging by the twitch of muscle, the shift of weight. He’d welcome it. He’ll put Wayne down again, if he wants to pick this fight. If the others interfere, well, then they’ll all know it wasn’t anything like a fair fight. Wayne will know.

Another shift, Wayne’s weight balanced on his toes as he coils, and—

“Enough!”

Wayne stiffens, gaze darting past him. Slade doesn't take his eye off the bastard, but he tilts his head enough to indicate he's heard Jason's sharp snarl, and to see it when his mate steps up next to him. A hand touches his arm, then wraps fingers around it and holds on, as Jason bares his teeth with just as much vicious intention as his supposed father.

"Jason—”

"No," his mate snaps, fingers tightening just a bit further. He takes a breath, and then says, "They might be my pack, Bruce, but you're not. Not after… everything. I'm done."

It actually seems to shock him. Wayne blinks, rearing back as much as his utter inability to show any weakness lets him. A few inches. His lips press tight together, and there's a stretching silence where Jason waits at his side, everything tense with anticipation.

His mate snorts, quietly, and settles back. "Yeah, that's kind of what I thought." There's a small tug at his arm, and Jason steps back out of his line of sight. "Let's go."

It's tempting, to strike while Wayne's off guard. Not physically, but verbally. But that's not what his mate's asked for, and he doesn't intend to make Jason uncomfortable just to harass an enemy. He'd rather take his mate home, distract him, let him… vent.

He takes a single moment to straighten, and dismiss Wayne with a scoff of his own, before he turns to follow the pull at his arm. Jason leads the way from the room, through the hall, and over the marble flooring of the entry hall. The blood he left during his last visit cleaned off well; there's not a trace of stain or scent anywhere, even with his senses. He'd be curious to see the carpet in the rooms that they fought in, though. Those would be much harder to erase the evidence from.

Jason shoves through the double door of the entrance, and then comes to a sharp stop at the top of the stairs, staring down at the gravel driveway and the variety of cars and such parked there. His mate's angry, it's easy to see in the set of his shoulders. Angry, but more than that.

Slade steps up next to him, winding an arm around his waist and tugging his mate close to his side. He's stiff, but after a moment he leans in, warm against his chest, head ducked down under his chin.

He looks over the cars below, taking in a deep breath of his mate's scent. Sharp with the anger, and an undertone that smells like grief, but still familiar. His mate. His omega. His partner.

"Any of those cars belong to him?" he asks.

Jason pulls back enough to look at him with narrowed eyes, slightly red at the edges and a little watery. "Why?"

Slade shrugs. "Just curious."

His mate turns his head to look at the cars, gaze skipping over them until they focus on a burnt-orange, sleek machine near one corner. "That one," he indicates, with a flick of his hand.

Slade hums acknowledgement, and gently nudges his mate to head down the steps and onto the gravel, towards where his mate's bike is leaning. Conveniently close to the indicated car, with its pristine, flashy paint job. Perfect for Wayne's spoiled brat persona.

"Slade?" Jason calls, when he breaks off from his mate at the bike and heads for that car.

He doesn't answer. He comes up to the car, eyeing the low carriage, the tinted windows. Nice machine.

One hard kick caves in the hood, with a truly cacophonous screech of metal on metal.

Jason stares at him as he wanders back. "You…” His mate snorts, then laughs a little disbelievingly, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. "Christ, there's no way that drives."

He hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his slacks, shifts his weight to one side. "Shame," is his only response, his tone as dry as he can make it.

His mate shakes his head, then steps forward and takes the bigger helmet off the handlebars of the bike, tossing it to him. The second one — red, of course — is tugged onto his own head, and he swings over the bike, settling into the driver position with ease. Slade raises an eyebrow.

"It's my bike," his mate points out, pulling out the keys and turning it on with a sharp rev of the engine. "Get on and suck it up.”

Slade tugs the helmet on and does as ordered, thighs bracketing his mate's, sliding an arm around his waist and resting the other against his hip, thumb hooking just under the waistband of Jason's pants. He feels every inch of the shiver his touch inspires.

"Not so bad after all," he comments, just loud enough for his mate to hear it past the reinforced plastic of the helmet.

Jason shudders, and presses back against him.

Slade smiles. "Drive, kid."


End file.
